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limited world. How faintly the vibrations of the
outer world reached us on that rural atmosphere it is
not easy to imagine in this later and louder age. When
I was twelve years old I hadn't been to London half
a do/en times in my life, and the ten sleepy miles to
the county town, whither the village carrier's van
went three times a week, were a road to romance.
Ten miles was a long way when I was a child* Over
the hills and far away, I used to think to myself, as I
stared across the orchards and meadows of the Weald,
along which ran the proverbially slow railway line to

There were a fe\v events which created in my mind
an impression out of proportion to the architecture of
my earthly ideas. Among them was Queen Victoria's
Diamond Jubilee (though I cannot pretend to re-
mcrnher exactly how it struck me at the time, except
that I counted fifty bonfires from the hill near our
house). This was balanced by Canterbury Cricket-
Week. (I went there by train with Dixon and spent
a long hot day watching Prince Ranjitsinhji make
about -i 75 not out. My aunt's black Persian cat was
called Ranji, which made the celebrated Indian
cricketer quite a comfortable idea for me to digest.)

Almost my favourite books were The Palace in the
Garden and Four Winds Farm, both by Mrs. Moles-
worth. Naturally there were other more impressive
phenomena which cropped up in my mental exist-
ence, such as Scott's hanhoe and Longfellow's poem
Extylsior^ and Beethoven's piano sonatas* But all
these things clothed themselves in local associations.
Sir Walter Scott had no existence outside of my
aunt's voice as she read him aloud in the evening,
Longfellow was associated with Mr. Star in the school-
room, Beethoven lived somewhere behind the faded